


Les Amis de Patron-Minette

by Sunfreckle



Series: Modern Means Less Miserable [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Aro spectrum Montparasse, Content warnings:, Gen, Trans Claquesous, Underage Smoking, he doesn't know so neither do I okay, mention of drugs, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 17:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: A collection of one-shot ficlets about the Patron-Minette boys, who all live together in the same house "Maison Minette". Lots of sarcasm, grumpy shows of affection and questionable behaviour.Most of these were first uploaded to my tumblr. They all fit into my "Modern Means Less Miserable" modern au, but can be read on their own.These are not being written in narrative chronological order, but will be ordered that way here.





	1. Stupid Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you beat people up together, you might as well live together. Montparnasse (18) and Claquesous (20).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: mention of harassment of a young girl, mention of violence, mention of bad home life

Claquesous doubles over, gasping for air, breathless from both the laughing and the running. “And you give me shit for _my_ temper,” he wheezes.

“To be fair,” Montparnasse coughs. “You broke the jerk’s foot, I only smacked him across the face.”

“With a _bludgeon_ ,” Claquesous reminds him, gulping down air and trying not to laugh it all out again.

“Blackjack,” Montparnasse corrects him. “And that girl was like…fifteen.”

There’s a short silence.

“Remind you of Ponine?” Claquesous hums.

Montparnasse doesn’t answer. He rarely does when someone brings up any of the Thénardier kids.

“Éponine wouldn’t have needed help,” Claquesous says, pushing his hair out of his face. “She would have broken his damn nose.”

“Yeah she would,” Montparnasse smirks. He looks down at his shirt and makes a noise of disgust. “Fucker bled on me.”

Claquesous laughs. “You and your damn clothes,” he snickers.

“You have five different types of shoe polish,” Montparnasse retorts snarkily.

They walk side by side through the badly lit streets with complete unconcern.

“You remember Gueulemer from the foundry?” Montparnasse says after a long silence.

“Course I do,” Claquesous grunts. Montparnasse is usually the one that deals with getting rid of the valuables they ‘collect’, but he’s been to the foundry a couple times. Plus, Gueulemer is rather hard to forget.

“He rents an attic from this old lady,” Montparnasse says casually. “Big house.”

Claquesous makes a vague noise of acknowledgement.

Montparnasse doesn’t make eye contact, but his tone does change a little when he carries on. “There’s two empty apartments. I’m thinking about taking the top one.”

“Course you need a whole floor to yourself,” Claquesous snarks.

“Damn right I do,” Montparnasse replies. He digs a packet of cigarettes for his pockets. “There’s room enough for all of us there,” he mutters, pulling a cigarette out with his teeth. “Rent is…negotiable.”

Claquesous glances at him. All his friends smoke. It’s disgusting. Also…Montparnasse can’t be suggesting what it sounds like he’s suggesting, right? Claquesous scoffs. “What, so now you want to be roommates?” he asks with a sneer.

“Fuck no,” Montparnasse hisses. “You and Babet can share the first floor.”

“Why the hell would we have to share?” Claquesous asks. In his indignation he even forgets to treat this as the joke that this has to be.

“You crash at Babet’s all the time,” Montparnasse says dismissively. “And between you maybe you’ll figure out a half-decent sleep schedule.”

He looks dead serious, but Claquesous doesn’t believe him. Yes, Babet and Montparnasse are the first real friends he has had in years, but this-  “What makes you think I’d want to share a house with you?” he huffs.

“You and Babet take too damn long to get a hold of when I need you,” Montparnasse replies, as if that is a valid answer to that question.

Claquesous grunts at him. They’re still walking and neither one looks at the other. Montparnasse smokes, Claquesous thinks. He hasn’t actually _lived_ somewhere since he skipped out on his damn parents. Might be nice to wake up in the same place every day…

“Fuckin’ stupid idea,” he grunts.

Montparnasse hums.

They walk a little further.

Claquesous kicks at a can, shattering the silence with the sound of it clattering away. “Where is this house anyway?” he asks sullenly.

Montparnasse smirks.


	2. Very Merry Minette Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time the patron-minette ever celebrate Christmas together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a prompt from Adrian <3
> 
> (19 y/o Montparnasse, 20 y/o Babet and Sous, 24 y/o Gueulemer)

 

“Catch,” Claquesous says, throwing shard of ice at Montparnasse.

He swats it out of the air and hisses.

Claquesous’ laugh cuts the winter air, loud and almost shrill. He doesn’t usually laugh out loud, but for once he doesn’t seem to care. He throws another piece of ice.

Montparnasse avoids it. He smashes the sheet of ice on a nearby puddle with his heel, grabs two shards and balances them like he would do with his knives. They burn in his hands. He manages to spin them twice before one breaks and he throws the other at the general direction of Claquesous’ feet.

“Show-off,” Claquesous mutters, but he’s grinning.

It’s early December and the coldest day it has been so far. Someone honks a horn at the corner of the street and they both look up to see Gueulemer pull up in his new car. ‘New’ means new for _him,_ of course. The car stops in front of the house and Babet bursts out of the passenger side with his arms full shopping bags.

“You guys went _shopping_?” Claquesous says incredulously.

“Please tell me some of those are new jeans,” Montparnasse snarks. If he has to look at Babet’s baggy monstrosities with actually worn through knees one more damn day-

“Fuck off,” Babet says happily. “It’s Christmas stuff.”

Montparnasse stares at him. _Christmas stuff_.

“You were serious about that?” Claquesous mumbles uncomfortably.

“Hell yeah,” Babet says and he grins at Gueulemer, who has emerged from the car and is looking a little sheepish.

Montparnasse grimaces. “What about your grandma?” he asks. Babet is the only one of them with a home to go to for high days and holidays. The only one with a home he _wants_ to go to anyway.

“She’s going to visit her sister,” Babet says trying to dig his keys out of his pocket without dropping the bags. “Jeez, Sous, open the damn door,” he orders, giving up.

Claquesous takes out his own keys and opens the front door to the house. “You don’t mind that?” he asks.

“I told her to go,” Babet say. “She never sees her. I mean _I_ don’t want to go. Couldn’t fucking pay me. But she should.”

Claquesous follows Babet inside, but Montparnasse waits and turns to Gueulemer, who is approaching with another bag filled with what are presumably Christmas decorations. “You hate shopping,” he points out. Gueulemer usually stays out of big, busy places.

Gueulemer shrugs. “Why not do the Christmas thing,” he says.

Montparnasse grimaces. As far as he is concerned Christmas is just another generator of crowds. Crowds of hurried people that don’t watch their wallets. Gueulemer taps him on his shoulder with one of his rough hands and Montparnasse distractedly pulls the front door shut behind him.

“Madame Minette won’t be home,” Gueulemer hums. “She usually goes away for Christmas…treats herself.”

“I don’t…” Montparnasse shakes his head and makes a vague noise.

“Come on,” Gueulemer says. “It’s just presents and stupid decorations.”

They both stop in the hallway to look up. Babet has taken off his shoes and is walking barefoot on the bannisters in the stairwell, hanging a garland being held for him by Claquesous. Babet looks excited. Claquesous mostly bemused, but there’s a reluctant smile pulling at the left corner of his mouth.

“So, what, we decorate the house and it’s Christmas?” Montparnasse sniffs, leaning against the wall.

“Pretty much,” Babet grins, somehow leaning forward to take a new garland from Claquesous without losing his balance. “And you know, order in some food, maybe set a fire or something.”

“I’m pretty sure Christmas isn’t supposed to be with take-out,” Montparnasse says.

“Well, who’s going to cook?” Babet laughs. “You?”

Montparnasse crosses his arms defensively. “I can cook.”

“No you can’t,” Claquesous snorts, looking back at him.

“Scrambled eggs aren’t _real_ food, Sous,” Montparnasse jeers.

“Not when you make ‘em,” he says.

“So Parnasse and me will do the food,” Gueulemer interrupts.

“Cool!” Babet agrees before Montparnasse can argue.

Claquesous glances at him and Montparnasse gives a shrug. He looks at Babet’s handiwork. The tinsel looks ridiculous in the shabby stairwell. Christmas always looks ridiculous though…

“What about presents,” Claqeusous mumbles.

“We could do the thing where you write names on notes and draw one,” Babet says, jumping off the bannister.

“That’s lame,” Montparnasse decides. “That’s something they do in offices.”

Babet pulls a face at him.

“If we’re doin’ this…could just do it properly,” Claquesous says.

“And properly is?” Gueulemer asks.

“Everyone gets presents for everyone,” Babet grins. “I’m up for that.”

“I can definitely think of stuff you all _need_ ,” Montparnasse snarks.

“Could say the same about you,” Claquesous retorts.

Babet is grinning. “If you jerks wanting to one-up each other is what it takes to have my Christmas, I am _fine_ with that.”

Montparnasse rolls his eyes, but really. If they’re going to do this… “Okay,” he says. “We’ll do it at my place then. It’s bigger. And not a fucking mess.”

“How nice of you to suggest,” Babet winks. “Spares me the trouble of breaking in.”

“Like you could,” Montparnasse sneers.

“Hey, this’ll be our first real party,” Gueulemer points out. “That’s kind of cool.”

“I guess,” Claquesous says, almost grinning. He takes the bag Babet shoves in his hands.

“Come on, Sous, more decorating,” Babet commands and he darts up the stairs.

“Try to get into my room and I’ll set yours on fire,” Montparnasse calls after him.

Babet’s laugh rolls merrily down the stairs.

Montparnasse turns around with a scowl and sees Gueulemer smiling oddly at the cheap tinsel hanging from the ceiling.  “What?” he asks.

“Haven’t celebrated Christmas…” he says slowly. “In five years? Haven’t had a proper Christmas in seven at least.”

Honestly, Montparnasse doesn’t know what is worse. Never having the sort of family that celebrates together, or having something fuck that up for you. Either way… “Well, we’re all here anyway,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Gueulemer grins. “Kinda nice to have the house full this year.”

Montparnasse wants to shrug again, but instead he nods. Yeah, maybe it is.

 

♦♦♦

 

“Who the fuck still has an oven that works on gas,” Montparnasse complains, peering through the dirty window in the oven door.

“If it works why bother replacing it,” Gueulemer hums. He is stirring in a big pot. He has been stirring for the past age.

Montparnasse doesn’t know anything about what it’s supposed to be, except that Gueulemer called it ‘aligot’ and that a horrendous amount of potatoes and cheese disappeared into that pot. By now there’s nothing left but a heavy mush that Gueulemer is pulling into tough strings with a wooden spoon that looks like it might well snap. The entire attic apartment smells like cheese. Well, it also smells like rum, because Montparnasse might have splashed it around a bit instead of measuring properly. Still, if anyone bitches about it they can go fuck themselves.

He only made this stupid cake thing because Claquesous had the nerve to tell him he couldn’t cook, which is rich coming from him. Neither Babet nor Claquesous know how to feed themselves and Montparnasse may not be too good at that either, but he _does_ know how to make stuff. When he really wants something he gets it, _sometimes_ that means learning how to make it. And the single thing Claquesous has ever said about Christmas was something about the bûche that his grandmother used to make. So now Montparnasse’s sleeves are smeared with chocolate and icing sugar and he’s watching to see if the log-shaped cake won’t burn in Gueulemer’s stupid oven.

“If the house doesn’t burn down I’m getting my own oven,” he declares. “And a damn dishwasher.” The tiny kitchen is an absolute disaster and Montparnasse refuses to clean all this shit up.

“No need to worry about that,” Gueulemer chuckles. “That’s a rule isn’t it, you don’t clean if you’ve cooked.”

Montparnasse grins. That’s something he can live with.

 

♦♦♦

 

Montparnasse opens his eyes and tries to decide if being awake is worth it. Wait, why is he in his living room? He sits up, his duvet sliding off him. He has apparently fallen asleep on his couch. There is snoring below him and when he looks down he sees Gueulemer sleeping on the floor. Curled up in a corner, in a mess of blankets that might almost be described as a nest, is Claquesous. Oh, right, Christmas. Montparnasse rubs his eyes. Babet had insisted on celebrating Christmas and since Montparnasse’s apartment is the biggest (due to Babet and Claquesous packing their floor full of unnecessary furniture), he finally relented and agreed to host. So for Christmas Eve they had all piled into his living room, watched some dumb movie and had so much to eat and drink none of them could move anymore. Montparnasse had lit some candles, because even though Babet had draped everything in Christmas lights it wasn’t really Christmas without candles, that much he was sure of.

Speaking of Babet, Montparnasse doesn’t see him anywhere. And he’s the one responsible for everyone sleeping on his floor, while having only to go up or down a flight of stairs to reach their own beds. He had insisted that Christmas morning means waking up together and staying in your pyjamas.

There is a shuffling noise behind him and Montparnasse turns around to see Babet coming out of his bedroom.

“The fuck?” he hisses.

Babet looks caught, but holds up Montparnasse’s laundry basket in defence. “For the presents,” he says quietly.

“Why do they need to be in a basket?” Montparnasse grumbles.

“Cause we don’t have a tree,” Babet says impatiently. “Now come on. You’ve got them right?”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse yawns. He doesn’t have his own gift of course, but Babet and Gueulemer both stashed a gift at his place. They sort of decided to all pitch in for each other’s gifts, letting the person that thought they had the best idea go for it. They’re a house full of liars after all and even with three people knowing what the fourth is going to get they should be able to keep the secret. And so far it seems they have. Montparnasse doesn’t know what he’s getting, and he can see Babet glance curiously at the rectangular box wrapped in Christmas paper that Montparnasse tosses in the basket.

“Is it morning yet?” Claquesous slurs, stirring in his nest in the corner. He stretches his arms above his head resentfully. “Not doin’ this again. Slept like crap.”

Babet jumps over Gueulemer and crouches beside him, still carrying the laundry basket. “Where’s Parnasse’s present?” he asks in a whisper.

“I can hear you,” Montparnasse snarks, getting off the couch and nudging Gueulemer with his foot. That does exactly nothing. Gueulemer sleeps like a log. Montparnasse is still surprised he agreed to sleep here. He’s usually very particular about having his own space. But then again, so is Montparnasse, and he fell for it.

“Gueul,” he says pushing a little harder. He is not bending towards him though, Gueulemer has a tendency to lash out when woken up.

“Hm?” Gueulemer grunts.

Close enough, that should do it. Montparnasse sits down and looks up to see Claquesous put the laundry basket down next to the slowly waking Gueulemer. It now has four presents in it.

“What time is it?” Claquesous yawns, letting himself fall onto the couch next to Montparnasse.

“Christmas morning,” Babet grins, sitting in Montparnasse’s chair with his legs slung over one of the arm rests. “Good morning, Gueul! Merry Christmas.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Gueulemer moans, sitting up. He looks up at Montparnasse. “You’re awake,” he says accusingly. “So why isn’t there coffee?”

Montparnasse scoffs and Babet says indignantly: “You have hot cocoa on Christmas morning. And presents before anything!”

Gueulemer mutters and sits up.

“You’re not allowed to get dressed either,”  Babet points out. “Tradition.” He glances uncertainly at Claquesous, who took off his binder before going to bed. “Unless you-”

“Presents, Babet,” he grunts.

“Right!” Babet beams, recovering immediately. “Parnasse is the youngest so he can go first.”

“You and Sous are  _barely_  older,” Montparnasse scowls.

“A  _year_ ,” Claquesous scoffs.

“Just for that, Gueul gets to go first,” Babet says and he leans over to push the basket towards Gueulemer, who has decided to sit cross-legged on the floor instead of joining Montparnasse and Claqeusous on the couch.

He fishes a small package out from the bottom of the basket. “Heavy,” he remarks, weighing it in his hand.

As he unwraps it Montparnasse feels a sudden wave of excitement. He chose Gueulemer’s gift and suddenly he really hopes that he chose well. This whole Christmas thing is mostly Babet’s idea and Montparnasse has no fondness for the holiday. The few good memories he has were nothing like this. He vaguely remembers singing carols and a few times he and his mom were actually with his father’s family and they tried for a proper weihnachtsabend. This is different. He’s never given anyone a Christmas present before.

Gueulemer opens the little box and makes a surprised noise. It’s a miniature anvil. On the side is a relief of a blacksmith at work. Claquesous and Babet crane their necks to see, while Gueulemer sets the surprisingly solid little object on his rough palm.

Montparnasse knows Gueulemer doesn’t really work with an anvil at the foundry, but he likes being called a smith instead of a metal worker. Montparnasse also knows that Gueulemer occasionally spends quite some time looking at the pretty trinkets Montparnasse gathers around his apartment.

A grin splits Gueulemer’s face. “This is awesome,” he says. “Thank you.” He’s addressing all of them and Christmas in general, as he should.

“My turn,” Babet grins and he grabs the box with his name on it.

Claquesous rolls his eyes. Babet is about two months older than he is, but he loves to rub that in Claquesous’ face.

“What the-?” Babet opens the box and pulls out a much smaller present. Gueulemer snickers and Claquesous and Montparnasse snort. He rips off the paper and his face light sup. “Fuck, a real Leatherman!” He pulls out the weird plier-looking thing and stars unfolding all kinds of blades and extensions.

When Gueulemer showed it to Montparnasse about a week ago he called it a multitool. Montparnasse thinks it looks like a swish army knife on steroids.

“Thank you, this is sick,” Babet beams, dropping the packaging on the floor. He kicks the basket towards the couch and Claquesous leans over to grab his gift.

It’s big and shapeless, and not very well wrapped. Under the Christmas paper there’s a plastic bag that is also taped shut. Claquesous raises his eyebrows and rips the tape off. He opens the bag and frowns. He sticks his hand in, pulls something out, and makes an odd sound at the back of his throat.

Babet looks at him expectantly and Montparnasse is curious too. Babet told him about this find, but refused to show him.

Slowly, Claquesous pulls a heavily embroidered coat from the bag. It’s in classic rococo style and so worn it has an almost ghostly appearance. The ruffles are tattered and the velvet faded, but it’s- “Gorgeous,” Claquesous breathes.

“They were throwing it out at the theatre,” Babet mutters, looking pleased. “So I offered to buy it.”

“Should have just fucking taken it,” Claquesous says indignantly, clearly offended at the thought of anyone throwing something like this away.

“We agreed not to steal the presents,” Babet reminds him.

Claquesous glances at him from behind his fringe and clears his throat. Instead of saying anything he looks back at the coat and strokes the worn fabric. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Montparnasse leans over to inspect the embroidery and Claquesous holds it out to him. It’s beautiful and it looks about Claquesous’ size too. He’s going to look like a dream in it. Or rather a nightmare, something escaped from another era, timeworn and everything.

“Won’t be easy to find a matching waistcoat,” Montparnasse muses.

Babet and Gueulemer share a grin.

“No…” Claquesous says thoughtfully, but then he looks up and smirks. “Open your present.”

Montparnasse takes the last present from the basket. He knows what’s in it before he has even started to unwrap it. “You got me a book?” he says, frowning.

There is a stubborn silence in the room.

He tears off the paper. It is a book. An old, green book with gold letters on the cover that read: Practical Guide to Tailoring. He hums and opens it to reveal a lot of fine print and a lot of detailed drawings. Montparnasse bites his lip. He’s never really taken his sewing this seriously. Not like Claquesous and his costumes. Montparnasse just fixes stuff that doesn’t look right. He looks up into Claquesous’ smug face. This was definitely his doing.

“Completely selfless gift, yeah?” he smirks.

“Completely,” Claquesous says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Gueulemer booms. “Now someone make that damn hot chocolate or I’m making coffee.”

Babet lets out a scoffing laugh and lets himself slide off the chair, but Montparnasse gets up before him. He’s not letting Babet loose in his kitchen. “I can make you both,” he says, carefully laying the book aside and giving a very quick, but appreciative glance to Claquesous who is stroking his new coat like he’s petting an animal.

“God bless us every one,” Gueulemer yawns sarcastically and he lets himself slump back onto his makeshift bed, rolling onto his side to look at the little anvil again.

Montparnasse looks back at his friends before disappearing into the kitchen and feels something warm bubbling in his chest. He’s actually of looking forward to the rest of today.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everyone <3


	3. Fowl or Foul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Babet (21) and Parnasse (19) visit Babet's grandmother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Leo's wonderful drawing skills.
> 
> (This piece feels a little out of place, but I really like how Babet turned out here so I'm saving it anyway)

“You drag me out before noon and make _me_ drive,” Montparnasse grumbles. “To _your_ bloody house.”

“Hm,” Babet hums. He isn’t listening, probably barely registered Montparnasse was even talking. He has his feet propped up on the dashboard and has his nose buried in one of his plays. Something by that Maya Angelou he won’t shut up about lately.

Montparnasse sighs and focusses on the road again. It won’t be that long a drive anyway, Babet’s grandmother lives on the outskirts of the city, but not too far.

She’s sitting outside waiting for them when they arrive. Montparnasse has only seen her twice before, but she greets him like an old friend. Not with nearly as much enthusiasm as she greets Babet though. Because that is literally impossible.

“There’s my handsome boy!” she coos, pulling her grandson into a hug. He is tall and she is short, but they are both thin and wiry. There’s definitely a family resemblance.

“Sorry it’s been so long, Nana,” Babet mutters, hugging her back.

Montparnasse stands back and smirks as she messes up Babet’s hair.

“Nonsense, darling,” she protests fondly. “You’re busy living your life, I understand that perfectly. But it is heaven having you back again. And your friend too.” She finally lets go of Babet, who flashes her a boyish grin that is tailor made for her.

“He dressed up just for you, Nana,” he winks.

Montparnasse scoffs. He doesn’t ‘dress up’. He just dresses well. If he has to be dragged out of bed he’s damn well going to make it worth his while.

“We’re in time for lunch, right?” Babet says eagerly.

“You just try and stop me from feeding you,” she laughs.

Babet presses a kiss on her cheek and she gives his arm a squeeze. Montparnasse watches impatiently. None of this is necessary. Montparnasse knows for a fact that Babet’s grandmother can’t say no to him. He looks too much like his late father. She dotes on him and Babet loves her for it, but he also exploits it.

“You boys fetch me some eggs and I’ll get right on it,” she says, turning away.

“Sure thing,” Babet grins. “Come on, Parnasse.” And he bolts past his grandmother and into the house.

Montparnasse follows him. “Come where?” he demands to know.

Babet nearly swings several doors into his face and Montparnasse curses at him. “And what the fuck does she mean fetch eggs?”

“Fetch eggs,” Babet says, opening the backdoor and stepping into the garden. “From the chickens. You know. That lay eggs.”

There is a thing in the back yard built out of wood and mesh that Montparnasse now presumes must be a chicken coop. He stares at it in dismay. “Since when does your grandmother keep chickens?” he asks.

“Dunno, since a while,” Babet shrugs.

“Is that even allowed here?” Montparnasse says, taking a step back when Babet opens what looks like a cross between a gate and a door.

“What a stupid question,” Babet says happily and he hunches his shoulders to squeeze into the coop.

There is a burst of noise inside that does not sound anything like what Montparnasse thinks of as chicken noises. It’s squawking more than clucking and it’s followed by a lot of fluttering that results in a whirl of birds of various sizes and plumage spilling out of the coop.

“Babet!” Montparnasse snaps, jumping out of the way of the scratching claws and flapping wings. “I swear to god-”

“Recently converted did you?” Babet quips, emerging with his hands full of eggs. “Come on man, they’re just birds.” He grins at the way the chickens shake their feathers indignantly and scuttling away from him towards Montparnasse. “See, they like you.”

Montparnasse glares.

Babet carefully puts the eggs in a bucket filled with weeds and crouches down, reaching out for one of the smaller chickens. “They’re super tame,” he says.

Well they must be, Montparnasse thinks. Considering the bird let’s Babet pick her up after being chased out of the coop like that.

“See,” Babet grins, lifting the chicken until it is on eye level. “Look at the pretty feathers,” he tuts. “They match your shirt.”

“Babet,” Montparnasse hisses. “You bring that chicken any closer to my face and I’ll make you regret it.”

“Don’t be like that, give her a kiss.”

“I will _literally_ kick your ass.”


	4. Trading Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parnasse (20) and Claquesous (22) messing with Inspector Javert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt by Adrian: "Claquesous trading names with Montparnasse when Javert is questioning them AGAIN and exaggerating it x1100 (because it's canon)"
> 
> Cw: mention of criminal activity, mention of drugs

“ _Gentlemen_.”

Claquesous freezes and Montparnasse groans inwardly. How does he _do_ that. For a guy that looks like he has damn marching music playing on a loop in his head Javert sure know how to appear out of nowhere.

“Officer,” he grimaces, turning around and his friend does the same.

“And what might you two be doing out here at this hour?”

Honestly, four in the morning is exactly the appropriate time to be outside a shady club but whatever. “Are we being detained?” Montparnasse asks coldly.

Javert smiles thinly. “There’s no need to take that tone,” he says. “We’re just having a friendly _chat_. Nor is there any need for the parade about you two having forgotten your identification.” He squints at Montparnasse. “Mister Montparnasse, is it not?”

“No,” Claquesous suddenly speaks up. “That would be me.”

He’s taking such care to pronounce all the vowels in the words that Montparnasse nearly smirks, but he just manages to keep a straight face.

“And that would make you Mister Claquesous,” Javert points at Montparnasse.

Montparnasse slants his head and lets his shoulders sag a little. “Yeah, sure,” he mutters.

“And where is your loud friend?”

“I expect he is still inside,” Claquesous says with a sigh, delicately brushing his fringe out of his face.

“We’re havin’ a night out,” Montparnasse says, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. Two can play at this game.

“Really?” Javert says, unimpressed. “And what did this night out involve?”

“Mostly dancing,” Claquesous says before Montparnasse can answer. “I am an excellent dancer.”

“An’ I just like to…soak up the music,” Montparnasse slurs in retaliation.

“I see…” Javert’s eyes seem to be continually fixed on either one of them. Dude could outstare a cat. “If that’s the case I’m sure you wouldn’t mind emptying your pockets for me?”

“Are we being _searched_ , officer?” Claquesous huffs with a flounce of his shoulders.

“If you’re looking for drugs, we don’t have any,” Montparnasse mumbles, trying to make enough hair fall in front of his eyes so he can glance out from behind it. “I don’t need it...I live for my _art_ …”

Claquesous takes in a sharp breath. “You think _I’d_ touch drugs? You have any idea what that stuff does to your _skin_?”

Javert probably isn’t capable of not frowning, but he’s definitely frowning _more_ now. He probably thinks they are on drugs instead of carrying them. “If I was about to search you, you would know it,” he says coldly. “I am only asking, in a very _friendly_ manner, if you wouldn’t mind emptying your pockets.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all,” Claquesous says and he smiles. He actually _smiles_.

Montparnasse has to hold his breath not to laugh at Javert’s face.

“Sous,” Claquesous snaps. “Hold this.” And he begins shoving whatever he has in his pockets against Montparnasse’s chest. Montparnasse has to scramble to take his hands out of the pockets of his skinny jeans and grab the random shit Claquesous always seems to be carrying around.

“Most of this useless crap is yours anyway,” Claquesous scolds. “God your so _messy_. I never carry _anything_ but the essentials. Like a mirror. And three different eyeliners.” He turns his pockets inside out and makes a face at Javert. “See? Nothing naughty.”

Montparnasse scoffs and stuffs the mishmash of things back into Claquesous’ hands. “You’re so full of shit,” he slurs. “Here.” He digs his packet of cigarette’s out of his jacket and tosses it to Claquesous. “Take your cancer sticks back.” He glances up at Javert. “I don’t smoke. It’s bad for my voice.” He continues emptying his pockets. There’s only one eyeliner by the way and no mirror. “There, nothin’.”

They both have plenty of things on their person that could land them in jail, but none of it is in their pockets that’s for damn sure.

Javert stares at them for a moment. “Alright then,” he says curtly. “I suggest you find somewhere else to spend the rest of your night.”

“Hm-hm,” Montparnasse grunts.

“ _Thank_ you officer, so kind of you,” Claquesous snarks.

They watch him walk away and turn the corner. As soon as he does Montparnasse straightens up and Claquesous leans back against the nearest wall.

“What the fuck was that?” Montparnasse asks, but he can’t stifle the grin on his face.

“Bored,” Claquesous says with a lopsided smirk. He starts putting his belongings back in his pockets.

“Hey,” Montparnasse snaps his fingers and holds out his hand.

Claquesous rolls his eyes and gives him his cigarettes.

Montparnasse lights up and smooths his hair back.

“So,” Claquesous hums. “Where’s your mirror?”

He just manages to evade Montparnasse’s kick to his shins.


	5. Brujon & Fauntleroy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 15/16 year old Brujon and Fauntleroy, before they've met the rest of the Patron-Minette.

Brujon has his headphones on. He needs his headphones on if he wants to hear himself think at home. It’s just after dinner and his mom is herding at least some of his older siblings to help with the washing up, but he’s managed to sneak off unnoticed. So now he’s lying on the top bunk of what is most of the time his bed (sometimes one of the others falls asleep in it, it happens). His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. It’s Fauntleroy.

**Faunt** : [knife emoji]

**Brujon** : ?

**Faunt** : Need out

Brujon sits up on his bed. It’s been a while since the last time he got a message like this.

**Brujon** : What happened

**Faunt** : OUT

Brujon glances at the corner of his screen. Eight forty.

**Brujon** : Pick you up in 15

He jumps down from the bunk bed, grabs his jacket and stuffs some essentials in the pockets. He takes the window off the latch just in case and then darts out of the room. He sneaks into the room down the hall, grabs a set of keys and before anyone notices he’s out of the front door.

Thirteen minutes later he arrives in Fauntleroy’s street. Instead of driving up to the house, he parks on the corner. This is a quiet neighborhood and Fauntleroy’s parents would probably hear him. He sends a text to let his friend know he’s arrived and jogs up to the house. He’s just in time to see Fauntleroy climb down the drainpipe. With their matching pink jeans and shirt and their baby blue coat tied around their neck by the sleeves they look like the softest, most fashionable burglar in history.

With a thump their suede boots hit the ground and they hurry towards Brujon. They look furious, but before they can open their mouth Brujon tosses them a helmet. They catch it and follow him with a face like thunder as he quietly runs back to where he parked the moped.

“Whose is it this time?” Fauntleroy asks ill-temperedly.

“Jen’s,” Brujon replies, putting his helmet back on and getting on the sort of stolen, sort of borrowed vehicle.

Fauntleroy gets on behind him.

“Where to?” Brujon asks, starting the engine.

“ _Fast_ ,” they reply through gritted teeth.

Brujon drives as fast as he dares. He’d drive a lot faster if this was his own moped. Jennifer will kick his ass if he damages it. But Brujon doesn’t want to waste money on a moped, he’s saving for a driver’s licence and a car. Behind him Fauntleroy switches from holding on to the seat to holding on to him instead, wrapping their arms around him with angry affection. Brujon drives a little faster still and lets the engine make as much noise as it possibly can. Behind him he can hear Fauntleroy beginning to scream. The sound is partiallly muffled by their helmet and blurs together with the engine noise in an angry burst of energy.

Brujon doesn’t stop until they have driven several wide circles around their favourite park. As soon as he does stop, Fauntleroy jumps off the moped before it even properly stops moving. They run across the grass towards the pond, taking off their helmet and freeing a frizzy head of blue curls in the process. Brujon locks the moped and follows at a more relaxed pace. When he arrives at the edge of the water Fauntleroy has thrown their coat onto the grass and is picking up stones and sticks from the bank and hurling them into the water as hard as they can. Brujon lets himself fall into a sitting position on the grass. Fauntleroy turns towards him for a moment, their beautifully made up brown eyes, snapping with anger.

“This is such bullshit!” they spit. “My parents are bullshit!”

Brujon nods. He can’t imagine how Fauntleroy deals with being an only child, constantly at the centre of every scrap of parental scruitiny. Well, he does know how they deal with it, not very well.

Fauntleroy keeps on swearing and throwing things until they’ve blown off enough steam to start losing momentum. After some more kicking at random tufts of grass and sneering at the world in general and their parents in particular, they sit down next to Brujon and hug their knees. For a while they both stare at the water, then Fauntleroy searches their coat to find a pocket and pulls out a hand full of sweets. Silenlty they hold out their hand to Brujon, who takes half the candy and says nothing as they both eat in silence. Brujon can feel their anger is only just out of sight, not at all gone. He glances through the park and points at the shadowy shape of a big, flowering bush.

“What are those again?” he asks.

“Rhododendrons,” Fauntleroy replies sullenly. “You ask that every time.”

“Oh yeah,” Brujon grins.

Fauntleroy lets out a tense breath and grumbles something unintelligible.

Brujon hums in agreement, dispite not having a clue what they said.

“Got music?” Fauntleroy asks after a while. “Forgot my earbuds.”

Brujon hums. Instead of putting his own music on he digs the earbuds out of his pocket and offers them to them. They search through their phone for a moment and then hand them one of the earbuds back. Brujon puts it in and they sit side by side, listening.

“What is this?” he asks after two songs.

“Cascada,” Fauntleroy replies. They have stopped hugging their knees and apart from occasionally fidgety hands or feet they seem calmer now.

“It sucks,” Brujon says. “Your music sucks.”

“Fuck you,” Fauntleroy drawls.

“Fuck your music,” Brujon grins.

“Your belt doesn’t match your shoes.”

“You look like a blue dandelion.”

“You haven’t washed your hair in a literal decade.”

Compared to the cries from before their bickering voices are muted in the dark park, but they don’t reach very far and soon it is nearly so dark that they can hardly be seen at all. They’ll have to go home eventually, but for now they’re happily hiding in plain sight and pretending neither of them has anywhere else to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about these babies and I would just like to say that both Brujon and Faunt's parents try _very_ hard to take good care of their kids. Faunt just doesn't deal very well with authoroty and Brujon is very good at slipping under the radar.


	6. Ambition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is part of the aftermath of Montparnasse's "accident" as described here:   
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012736/chapters/34294010
> 
> [ Cw: injury, drugs/painkillers ]

Montparnasse is sprawled out on the couch in Claquesous and Babet’s apartment, Claquesous’ overpriced headphones on his head. He’s listening with his eyes closed, because if he doesn’t Claquesous will just leave the room. Melodramatic fuck. Claquesous never asks his friends to listen to his music, he just mentions he’s got something new and then leaves his laptop and headphones in their general vicinity. Montparnasse’s feet twitch. This is not music to be listened to lying down. This is not music to be listened to keeping still. But it still hurts to move, so lying still it is.

The track ends and Montparnasse opens his eyes. Claquesous is pretending to stare out of the window. Slowly and without saying anything, Montparnasse takes off the headphones, careful not to raise his arms too high. His heart is still racing. Claquesous’ music will do that to you. He puts the headphones down on top of the laptop.

Claquesous turns around with apparent indifference on his face. “Done?” he grunts, walking over to take his treasured laptop back.

Montparnasse opens his mouth. He knows all Claquesous wants to hear from him is “cool” or “sick” or “feels like being stabbed with diamonds”, but he’s tired and on a lot of pain medication and this past month has been an insult to his very being.

“Your music’s good, Sous.”

Claquesous stares at him from behind his fringe. There’s a moment of silence and then he lets out a scoff. “I know it’s fuckin’ good,” he sneers. “Better than the trash they play in the club.”

“Yes it is,” Montparnasse agrees blankly, his eyes fixed on him forcefully.

His friend gives him an uncomfortable look. “Fuck off,” he mutters, trying to evade the unexpected sincerity in Montparnasse’s voice.

“No you fuck off,” Montparnasse bites, a snarl of frustration panging in his mind. “Cause what the hell are you even doing, dealing at a club when you should be performing.”

“You’re high,” Claquesous grunts.

“Yeah,” Montparnasse snaps. “So I don’t have the capacity to put up with your damn bullshit right now.” He sits up straight with a groan. Cracked ribs are a  _bitch_. Claquesous is still standing with his laptop in his hands and Montparnasse glares at him. “Tell me about your show.”

Claquesous changes colour behind his make-up. “My-”

“Your fucking  _show_ ,” Montparnasse demands. Every damn time they actually stick around to see one of the acts at the club Claquesous bitches about it. When they get high after a successful break-in and he’s drifted off far enough to stop caring he starts talking about illusions and acoustics until Babet joins in and blabbers about stage building and lights. They both know  _exactly_  what they’d be putting on if they were given a stage. And from what Montparnasse is able to understand of it, it would be fucking  _brilliant_.

It would be. If it every happened.

Montparnasse is sick of hearing Claquesous talk about things he could be  _doing_.

He’s sick of having people look down on him and his friends. He’s sick of this nauseating pain radiating through his ribcage. The past couple days he’s been so drugged up with pain killers that he actually manages to forget how fucking  _angry_  he actually is. And then, in moments like this, it all comes crashing down on him. Every single thing leading up to this point. That bloody phone call he shouldn’t have answered, Thenardier’s sneering face, Éponine’s tears, the colour draining from Gueul’s face when he saw him, it all clots together into a crumpled ball of rage.

“Tell Raf you want to perform,” he says, forcing the worlds through the pain clenching his  jaws and refusing to look away from Claquesous avoiding eyes. “Bring him you goddamn music. Bribe him. I don’t fucking care. Just get Babet to dream up a sodding lighting plan or whatever it is to go with this and  _drown people in it_.”

He falls back onto the couch pillows with a painful groan, struggling to control his breathing. “Fuck-”

“Moron,” Claquesous mutters, holding out a hand to prevent the pillow from sliding down too far.

“ _Leck mich_ ,” Montparnasse snaps, wincing slightly before he manages to relax his muscles again.

Claquesous shuts up, sitting down and then pulling his legs up until he’s perched on the armrest of the couch. He holds the closed laptop balanced on his knees, his arms resting protectively across it. Between his hood and his hair falling in front of his face Montparnasse can no longer see his expression, but he doesn’t need to.

There’s a very long silence, and then Claquesous says with a hesitation in his voice that is so deeply uncharacteristic Montparnasse hopes he’ll never have to hear it again:

“You think Raf would even want to listen?”

For a burning second the anger comes back. Because that’s it, isn’t it. Sous knows he’s talented, he knows his music is good, he just also knows that no one ever fucking gives them the time of day.

But the moment Thénardier brought his boot down on Montparnasse was the moment he decided he wanted out. And he’s getting out. And he’ll drag his friends with him by their hair if he has to.

“I don’t fucking care,” he tells Claquesous. “But he’s going to.” He points at Claquesous’ laptop. “I’m going to get someone off dancing to that and whatever it takes to make that happen you’ll just have to fucking do.”

Claquesous tilts his head just enough to glance at Montparna _s_ se, a thin flicker of a grin pulling on one corner of his mouth. “You’re not dancing to anything soon, invalid.”

Montparnasse manages to repay that with a look close enough to disdain. “That gives you some time to become less of a coward then.”

Claquesous flips him off, but Montparnasse sees something on his friends face he’s rarely seen outside of work and it nearly makes him grin. Ambition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for Montsous week 2019, because I missed these kids like crazy. Hope you liked it!


	7. Long Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into Feuilly and Montparnasse's friendship/foster sibling relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 year old Montparnasse and 23/24 year old Feuilly.

Feuilly is tired but content as he sets off for home. He worked late again, but it was worth it, it’s so much better to go home knowing he just wrapped up a project. The streets he walks through are all comfortably familiar to him, Feuilly can navigate them without actually paying attention. That’s why it’s rather late before he realizes that someone is leaning against the metro entrance when he approaches it. Someone that’s looking at him and that has an oddly familiar-

“Montparnasse?” Feuilly starts.

The dark haired boy grins and pushes away from the wall. “Hi,” he says, sounding utterly casual.

Feuilly almost raises his arms impulsively, but he stops himself. Montparnasse never did like hugs. “It’s good to see you,” he says and he means that sincerely.

Instead of giving a proper answer Montparnasse looks him over and says, with a slight grimace: “You have a beard.”

The corner of Feuilly’s mouth twitches into a smile. Montparnasse hasn’t changed. Or…maybe he has. Despite the familiar all black he looks different. Older, of course, but also… “It’s been a while,” he remarks.

Montparnasse shrugs, but as he does so Feuilly sees just the slightest wince in his face and he drops his shoulders quickly. Something’s definitely off.

“You switched jobs,” Montparnasse hums.

“Yeah, I wanted to learn new things,” Feuilly says. Suddenly he’s rather curious. “How did you find me?” 

He really tried to find Montparnasse, but after a while he figured he didn’t want to be found. Apart from the occasional vague report he had hardly heard a thing for almost two years. And the things he had heard hadn’t been good. Feuilly didn’t really know how to deal with that. He knew he had no right to demand that Montparnasse stayed in contact with him, but he has a soft spot for him. Even more so than for the other kids he knows from the system. He keeps in touch with most of the kids he met in his foster home. The difference is that they generally keep contact with each other and their foster parents as well. Montparnasse never did.

“I have my ways,” Montparnasse smirks.

Feuilly snorts and shakes his head.

Montparnasse’s grin becomes a little more relaxed. “In this case my way is called Gueulemer.”

That surprises Feuilly. “You know Gueulemer?” he says. Gueulemer works at a foundry and metal workshop not far from his own place of work. Feuilly likes Gueulemer. He’s quiet and kind of distant, but he makes very nice metal fittings.

“We live in the same house,” Montparnasse tells him.

“That’s awesome,” Feuilly says. He wants to ask what kind of house, but he’s happy enough that there is a house.

“Sous and Babet live there too,” Montparnasse says, looking up at the dark sky. “It’s cool.”

Feuilly smiles. “Nice to have your friends around.”

“Yeah,” Montparnasse nods, but he’s turning away slightly.

Feuilly knows that movement. Montparnasse is shifting his attention away. He’s going to leave. Feuilly is used to that. Before the sudden radio silence Montparnasse just used to drop in sometimes and then disappear again. But Feuilly hasn’t seen him for ages and he’s so relieved to see him now, looking like he’s at least doing okay, that he wishes there was something he could do to actually convey that. “You need to be somewhere or shall we go for a drink?” he asks.

Montparnasse looks at him and grins slightly. “ _You_  are going to buy  _me_  alcohol?” he snarks.

“You were  _fifteen_ ,” Feuilly reminds him.

Montparnasse chuckles silently and makes a sideways motion with his head. “Sure, why not.”

Feuilly smiles. “My choice?” he asks.

Montparnasse makes an inviting gesture with his hand.

They start walking and Feuilly is definitely convinced Montparnasse does not move as easily and gracefully as he remembers him doing.

“I can walk fine,” Montparnasse snarks. “Don’t pick a shitty bar because you think I won’t make it.”

“Well, since you brought it up, what happened?” Feuilly asks, deliberately not looking at him.

“You don’t want to know and I’m not going to tell you,” Montparnasse says simply.

“Okay,” Feuilly says simply. “Is it going to happen again?”

“No,” Montparnasse says firmly.

“Good,” Feuilly nods. He doesn’t say another thing until they’re sitting in the corner of a vaguely familiar bar. Feuilly orders cider, Montparnasse red wine.

“Your taste has improved since I saw you last,” Feuilly jokes. He remembers Montparnasse and his friends drinking to get drunk, not to enjoy whatever they were drinking.

“Yours hasn’t,” Montparnasse sniffs.

Feuilly grins. “You’re a snob, Parnasse.”

“You’re the one that brought up taste,” Montparnasse reminds him, leaning back with the glass elegantly cradled in his fingers. “Seriously, what’s with the beard.”

Feuilly answers him in the same warm tone he always uses when Montparnasse tries to get a rise out of him. Montparnasse dutifully responds by trying a little harder. Feuilly decides not to ask what happened the past two years, but he really hopes that even if it happens again, Montparnasse won’t disappear this time.


	8. Early Morning Industry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse (21) being very annoyed with Gueulemer (25).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by my insane fiancé.

Montparnasse’s eyes fly open. What the _hell_?? He rolls out of bed, actually pressing his hands to his ears against the piercing noises that seem to come in through both the window and his ceiling. He grabs a pair of jeans and puts them on, not even bothering with shoes before he grabs his keys and slams the door to his apartment behind him and runs up the stairs to the attic floor. The door is locked, but Montparnasse has everyone’s keys. The hellish noise is even louder here.

“Gueul!” he yells.

No answer, big surprise.

Montparnasse kicks open the door to Gueulemer’s bedroom and sees that the dormer window is open. An extension cord is draped across the windowsill, leading outside. On the flat roof it leads to Gueulemer is leaning over something metal an rusty. He’s wearing gloves, goggles _and_ ear protection. Lucky him.

Montparnasse sticks his head out the window. “What the ever-loving _fuck_ are you doing!”

Gueulemer clearly doesn’t hear him and he’s completely focussed on his work. Whatever he is holding, it is plugged in the extension cord and screeching and sparking whenever he pushes it against the metal.

Furiously Montparnasse turns back into the room, grabs the plug of the extension cord and pulls it out. The noise stops. If his ears could sigh in relief they would.

“What- oh, hi,” Gueulemer says, turning towards the window and seeing Montparnasse. He pushes the goggles up his head, or as far as his dreads will allow it. “What’d you do that for.”

“Gueul,” Montparnasse glowers. “It is _Monday morning_.”

“Yeah, so?” Gueulmer shrugs.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing something for the car,” he says.

“On the roof?” Montparnasse snaps incredulously.

“Don’t have electricity outside in the street,” Gueulemer grunts. “I’m almost done anyway.”

“Done doing what,” Montparnasse spits. He sleeps in on Mondays. Gueulemer is actually insane. The air is thick with the smell of burning metal and there’s smoke blowing in through the window.

“Removing rust,” Gueulemer says, putting his goggles back on. He gestures to the extension cord with one of his enormous, gloved hands. “Plug that back in, will you?”

“No I will _not_ ,” Montparnasse says. “You have actually lost your mind this time.”

Gueulemer gives him an unimpressed look. Or at least Montparnasse thinks that is what it’s meant to be, it’s rather hard to tell with the goggles. “You use my car more than I do,” he points out.

Montparnasse grumbles, abruptly turns away from the window and plugs the extension cord back in.

“I’ll be done in a minute,” Gueulemer’s voice booms over the grinding noise and he gets back to work.

He better be, Montparnasse thinks darkly. With a groan he rubs his temples and flees Gueulemer’s room. And he thought Babet shorting out the lights three times last week was bad.


	9. Unnerving, unnatural events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written because Batvelvets asked for some Patron-Minette and was willing to give bonus points for Fauntleroy ^_^

Montparnasse walks into Babet and Claquesous’ living room, but stops so abruptly that Babet, walking close behind him, nearly walks into him.

“Dude, what-”

Babet shuts his mouth and stares

Just like Montparnasse is staring. Because on the couch there is not just Claquesous, who looks up from his phone rather wearily, but also a sleeping Fauntleroy. Montparnasse knows or certain that they are sleeping. First of all because they are lying still, which is impossible for a waking Fauntleroy and second because they are lying slumped against Claquesous in the crook of his arm, and physical displays of affection really aren’t their thing.

“Are we interrupting something?” Montparnasse asks, it’s meant to be sneering, but it comes out more as genuinely surprised.

Claquesous drops his phone to make an angry gesture at Montparnasse, bidding him to keep his voice down and then he whispers: “I told them, next time you need to run away, run here.”

Babet pushes past Montparnasse and frowns at the seemingly unconscious eighteen-year-old. “Are they okay?”

“Yeah,” Claquesous mutters. “Just pissed off.”

“Faunt’s always pissed off,” Montparnasse says, walking through to the kitchen. That’s not strictly true. But even Fauntleroy’s happiness seems to have an angry energy to it. When he comes back, Babet is sitting on the table. Fauntleroy is still out cold. They look unnervingly cute like this, with their blue curls and flowery pastel clothes.

“I suppose this means they are staying the night,” Montparnasse drawls. He leans against the table and Claquesous gives him a dirty look that is just a touch defensive.

A short silence settles over the three—well, four of them.

“They need to get out of that fucking place,” Claquesous mutters.

Another silence follows, and one Montparnasse has no intention of filling.

“Parnasse has a spare room…” Babet speaks up.

Montparnasse bristles. “Absolutely not,” he hisses and he jabs a finger in Claquesous’ direction. “You brought home the stray,  _you_ take care of it.”

Claquesous glares at them both, glancing down at Faunt, who sleeps on undisturbed. Montparnasse is slightly weirded out by seeing Claquesous like this. It’s not like him at all to be this overtly protective. Not like this anyway. Montparnasse thinks back to a fight he shouldn’t have picked and Sous breaking someone’s nose before Babet had even got a word in edgeways and sighs.

“Do you know what happened?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“Same shit as always,” Claquesous grunts. “They can’t breathe there.”

Montparnasse glances back at Fauntleroy. He doesn’t know a lot about their parents, but from what he’s heard from Brujon one thing is certain: they  _always_  come look for them. Which is why if they stay away for too long, they’ll probably panic and call the police.

No telling how soon they’ll think to look here. Fauntleroy is eighteen, but only just. None of this is going to look good.

Babet is uncharacteristically silent and Claquesous frowns when his eyes meet Montparnasse, so Montparnasse knows he’s thinking along the same lines as he is.

There’s a momentary struggle visible on Claquesous face, but then he makes a resentful noise at the back of his throat and points towards a small suede backpack hanging on the back of a chair. “Give me their phone,” he says.

Montparnasse raises an eyebrow, but Babet leans over and digs through the side pockets until he unearths a very expensive iPhone in a horrid glittery case. He holds it out to Montparnasse, who takes it like it’s at least mildly infectious and hands it to Claquesous.

Claquesous throws another quick glance down to Fauntleroy’s sleeping face before he tries to get into their phone. Montparnasse snorts softly when he manages to unlock the pattern lock with the second version of a five-pointed star that he tries. For a moment Claquesous looks amused too, but then his expression grows sullen again as he scrolls through Fauntleroy’s chats. Montparnasse still looks over his shoulder and Claquesous doesn’t stop him. It seems there are a lot of messages from their parents. In several different chats. Like…a lot. Montparnasse feels vaguely uncomfortable all of a sudden, but Claquesous scrolls past them indifferently. He keeps going until he finds a contact named “Tonton”. There’s only one message there: *Safe?*

Claquesous sends back, without further hesitation: *Safe. At a friends*

The reply is so immediate that the content of it surprises Montparnasse.

*Ok. I’ll tell them*

It’s followed by a purple heart and now Claquesous does hesitate. He scrolls back through the chat until he finds a conversation where Fauntleroy replied to the same emoji with a blue heart. So Claquesous sends that in reply and even though it’s read immediately, there is no further answer this time.

Claquesous lets out a breath and hands the phone back to Montparnasse. “They’re gonna hate me for that,” he mutters.

“Tough,” Montparnasse sniffs, putting the phone back where Babet found it.

“That should buy us some time,” Claquesous says.

“Was that the uncle?” Babet asks from where he’s perched on the corner of the table again.

Claquesous nods.

Montparnasse looks round and Babet’s eyes go from Claquesous to him. “Their uncle seems alright,” he says.

“Less of a moron than the parents at least,” Montparnasse hums.

Claquesous nods, reluctantly, but still.

Montparnasse glances at Babet and he gives a vague nod of his head. Maybe there’s a way out there that  _doesn’t_  involve them having to house an explosive teenager. In any case, there’s nothing else to do right now. It’s late. This shit will keep till morning.

“Well,” Montparnasse says, letting his face relax into a grin. “Have fun cuddling then.”

Claquesous’ dark eyes snap angrily, but Montparnasse ignores him, turning to Babet instead. “If you need a place to sleep, away from these unnerving, unnatural events—” He gestures at the couch in its entirety. “—you’re welcome to come crash on  _my_  couch.”

“Thanks,” Babet smirks. “But I’m good.” And he takes out his phone, something he’s clearly been wanting to do ever since walking through the door, and holds it up to take a picture.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Claquesous bites.

“Shh!” Babet shushes. “You’ll wake the baby!”

“You guys will make great fathers, I can tell,” Montparnasse sneers. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting the hell out.” And he retreats to the hallway, with Babet’s obnoxious grin and Claquesous raised middle finger for a parting gift.


	10. Rooftop Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Azura asked for more angry rainbow flower child <3
> 
> Cw: teenage negativity (also, don’t skip school kids <3)

Fauntleroy doesn’t go here anymore, but climbing on top of the Gymnase still feels familiar rather than nostalgic. They scramble onto the roof and look around impatiently. Two feet in dirty sneakers are sticking out from behind a vent. Fauntleroy huffs, walks over and kicks against the sole of Brujon’s left foot.

“Hey,” they say. “Why weren’t you responding, you jerk.”

Brujon looks at them, turning his head with a degree of lethargy that’s very unlike him. “Phone died,” he says.

Fauntleroy drops down into a sitting position and frowns down at him, twitching their foot so their shoe scuffs against the rough surface of the roof. “What’s wrong?” they demand.

“Nothing’s  _wrong_ ,” Brujon grumbles and he doesn’t even bother to pull a dramatic face, which means something’s definitely wrong.

Fauntleroy stares at him and waits.

“So I fuck up another test, who cares,” Brujon mutters at the sky. “Worst they can do is hold me back again. Big fucking deal. So I won’t graduate this year. At least I won’t have to go do something worse-”

Fauntleroy picks at their nail polish. They can’t really argue with that. University sucks. Nothing has sucked the fun out of photography faster than having to study it. Still, seeing Brujon so low is…distressing. It’s pissing them off.

“Ugh, let’s get out of here then,” they say.

Brujon doesn’t answer.

“Fine,” Fauntleroy says, digging around in their bag. “Then I’m painting your nails.”

“ _No_ ,” Brujon protests, swatting their hand away when they try to grab his.

“Then get the fuck up,” Fauntleroy orders him. “Come on.” They let go of his hand and tug on his long curls instead.

He swats their hand away again, but this time there’s a little more energy in his expression, maybe even a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Want to go and play Karma’s a Bitch?” Fauntleroy says coaxingly, leaning back on the palms of their hands.

“Nah,” Brujon hums. The sullen apathy is wavering though and Fauntleroy is eager to see the back of it.

“Then we’re going thrift shopping,” they say.

“Mmm,” their friend mutters vaguely.

“Alright, purple nails it is,” Fauntleroy decides and before Brujon can react they grab his arm and lock it into a grip that makes him protest very loudly.

“Knock it off!” Brujon throws his weight against them to push them off balance but Fauntleroy braces their feet.

“I’ll let you go when I’m done.”

“ _Fine_  we’ll go shopping, get that stuff away from me.”

Fauntleroy hasn’t even opened the bottle of nail polish. They really would have needed two hands for that. “Good, cause I’m  _bored_.” They let go of Brujon and spring to their feet.

“Don’t you have class this afternoon?” Brujon asks, rubbing the shoulder of his assaulted arm and doing a rather bad job of hiding a smile.

“Don’t  _you_  have class this afternoon?” they snark back, climbing nimbly down the side of the building again.

“Yeah but it’s just French, like, I  _know_  French,” Brujon says, following them. When his feet are on solid ground again he lets his face relax into his usual laid-back grin and Fauntleroy feels the world shift closer to its natural order again. “I don’t have fancy  _uni_  stuff to go to.”

“Neither do I,” Fauntleroy sniffs. “Cause it’s fucking garbage.”

“Whatever,” Brujon says as they slip off the school grounds and he sounds properly like himself again. “Your blog’s probably full of stuff better than anything those tools can come up with.” He slings an arm heavily across Fauntleroy’s shoulders and they jostle against him in retaliation until they are walking as close as they can get while looking like they don’t mean to do anything of the sort.

“Where are we going again?” Brujon asks.

“Thrift store,” Fauntleroy says contentedly. “I’m gonna get you into something burgundy. And  _don’t_  argue with me.”

Brujon rolls his eyes. “As long as it’s not another damn cardigan.”

“Hey, that looked good on you and you know it,” Fauntleroy says. They glance sideways at their friend. “We’ll get you a nice dress shirt. You should wear those more. Parnasse would agree with me you know.”

Brujon snorts, but his desire to impress Montparnasse usually outweighs his hatred of shopping. As far as Fauntleroy is concerned it is the only reason to express any sort of reliance on Montparnasse’s opinion without following it with a sarcastic comment.  _Montparnasse_  doesn’t believe in thrift stores.

“You looking for something?” Brujon asks.

“Always,” Fauntleroy replies, shifting under the weight of his arm. And they are, always looking for new stuff, hidden treasures, but they know there isn’t anything to find right now. They went to this store yesterday already. But it’s close and there’s an awful green tassel thing that will make Brujon laugh if they try it on and, if they remember correctly, at least one burgundy shirt that was a size too big for them.


	11. All That Glitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance meeting between Gueulemer (26) and Joly (23).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt by my darling sister.

Second hand jewellery stores are a guilty pleasure for Joly. Well, maybe not that guilty actually. He especially likes buying presents and that’s what he’s after today. Courfeyrac has been complaining about not being able to find a locket that has room for three pictures instead of two and it just so happens Joly found one during his latest session of browsing jeweller’s websites. He’s never been to this shop though and it’s in a really out of the way part of town. Still, that makes it better, nothing like finding a new treasure trove.

When he steps into the store there’s someone at the counter already. He’s so tall and broad he obscures the sales clerk from Joly’s view completely.

“It’s only eight carat,” he hears the clerk say. “Some people don’t even call that gold.”

“Don’t matter,” the big man grunts. “It’s good craftsmanship, it will sell.”

“Fine, I’ll see what I can do,” the clerk sighs. “But only cause we’re friends, Gueulemer.”

He disappears to the backroom and Joly steps up to the counter. “Good afternoon!” he says cheerfully.

The man named Gueulemer gives him a slightly startled stare. Perhaps he’s not used to being spoken to uninvited. He does look rather intimidating with his leather coat and black dreads, but somehow he reminds Joly a little of Bahorel and there’s certainly no reason not to be friendly to him.

“Hi,” Gueulemer answers eventually, looking down at Joly.

“Here to sell something, I see,” Joly says pleasantly. He hopes it’s not something of particular emotional value, but that would be invasive to ask.

Gueulemer nods, still looking rather puzzled at Joly’s attempt at conversation.

“Well, I hope you get a good price for it,” Joly smiles.

Before Gueulemer can answer, if he was even going to answer, the clerk comes back. “Afternoon,” he says, nodding at Joly, and then turns back to Gueulemer. “Sorry man, this is the best I can do.” He hands him a receipt.

Joly thinks the other man doesn’t look very impressed with the figure, but not surprised either. “Sure,” he shrugs and he accepts a couple of bills in exchange for whatever it was he came here to sell.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” the clerk grins.

Gueulemer hums and steps aside to make room for Joly, but he doesn’t leave. Instead he leans against the counter and watches as Joly gives the clerk a bright smile.

“I’ve come to see the three piece gold locket on your website,” he says cheerfully. “I think it’s exactly what a friend of mine has been looking for.”

“Well it’s an exquisite piece,” the clerk says smilingly. “Let me get it for you.” He comes back with the locket on a long chain. He holds it out to Joly.

“It’s smaller than I had pictured it,” Joly says, taking it carefully. “But it’s beautiful!” There’s no engraving on it, but the little clasp is elegant and it flips open to reveal three little oval frames to fit a picture into.

While he’s examining it Gueulemer seems to move his head in a way that indicates he wants to see, so Joly immediately holds it out for him.

“It’s in very good condition I think!” Joly says excitedly. He’s certain Courfeyrac will like it.

“Hm,” Gueulemer nods and he leans back again.

“Oh it’s a wonderful piece,” the clerk says emphatically. “And it’ll make a wonderful present.”

“I think so too,” Joly agrees. “I’ll take it. How much is it?”

“Well, considering the gold-” the clerk begins with a smile, but Guelemer cuts him off:

“- it will be very reasonably priced.”

The clerk blinks and Joly looks at him curiously.

Gueulemer is smiling, but there’s something amused and challenging in the upturned corner of his mouth. “Since it’s only eight carat,” he says, fixing his eyes on the clerk. “ _Some_ people don’t even call that gold.” He looks sideways at Joly. “It’s a good find.”

“Yes…” the clerk says stiffly. “Well…”

Joly wasn’t going to haggle, he never does, but he’s pretty sure the price that the clerk gives him is a lot lower than it was going to be. While he’s paying, Gueulemer saunters away from the counter.

“You don’t want it gift wrapped do you?” the clerk asks.

“Oh no,” Joly says cheerfully. “That’s alright.” He likes wrapping his gifts himself. He’s had a silver bow with Courfeyrac’s name all over it lying around the house for ages.

“Well, here you go, have a nice day,” the clerk sighs.

“Thank you!” Joly chimes. “And a wonderful day to you!”

He turns around, but to Joly’s surprise and disappointment Gueulemer managed to slip out of the store without him even hearing the door. How strange, and now he won’t even get to thank him. Pity. Well, it’s a good story at least. Presents are always better when they come with a good story. Joly can’t wait to see Courfeyrac’s face.


	12. The affection of indifference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a sweet anon who called both the amis and the patron-minette their children <3

Montparnasse doesn’t know what he was expecting when the bell rang in the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, but it wasn’t Fauntleroy.

They look appropriately defensive (their usual substitute for apologetic) when he opens the door and blinks at them in genuine surprise.

“I thought Sous would be home,” they explain, eyes immediately turned towards their rainbow sneakers.

Montparnasse had guessed as much. But they still ended up ringing  _his_  bell when that turned out not to be the case. They also have their book bag slung over their shoulder. It doesn’t take a genius to figure this one out. Clearly, uni life is not quite agreeing with Fauntleroy

Montparnasse steps aside and Fauntleroy darts past him without a word.

“You got a key to Sous’ place?” they ask, already climbing the stairs.

“Not anymore,” Montparnasse hums wistfully. Babet wrestled it off him the last time he let himself into their shared apartment for some well-deserved payback.

“Oh…” Fauntleroy bites their lip and Montparnasse can see just enough of their face to confirm his suspicion that they’re not just skipping class. They probably ran out, or were kicked out. Either way…

“He’ll probably be home any moment,” Montparnasse says, with practiced indifference. “You can wait for him upstairs if you like.”

He walks past them without waiting for an answer and Fauntleroy follows him without a word. Once in his apartment they sit down on the couch, but don’t take their coat off. Montparnasse sits down in his chair. He doesn’t know how to talk to Fauntleroy very well, certainly not when they’re upset. He could compliment their outfit, but they’d hate knowing that he’s trying to be nice to them and if there’s anything Montparnasse does understand about them it’s that.

“I know from experience you’re more than capable of raiding my fridge, so help yourself,” he says, making a show of digging a magazine out of the pile on the side table.

Fauntleroy flashes him a smirk. It’s very quick and they take out their phone and headphones immediately after, but it was just long enough to give Montparnasse a proper look into their eyes.

They’re red.

Well, that settles it.

With Fauntleroy’s attention focussed safely on their music, Montparnasse takes out his own phone.

It takes five messages in quick succession to get Claquesous to look at his phone. After that it takes an illogically short time for him to knock on Montparnasse’s door. Montparnasse hadn’t expected anything less though and instead of getting up he hums, loud enough to get through Fauntleroy’s no doubt blasting music:

“Sounds like Sous.”

Fauntleroy’s head snaps up and they jump off the couch to open the door. As soon as they’ve gotten up, so does Montparnasse. He stretches out on the couch, listening to the sounds of opening doors and Sous’ faux-surprised greeting. Claquesous and Fauntleroy make their way to the living room and Montparnasse makes sure he takes up the entire couch when they come through the door. Fauntleroy hesitates, taken by surprise, and Montparnasse gives Claquesous a single greeting glance before burying his nose in his magazine again.

“Take the chair,” he says indifferently. “You’re invading my house, I’m not moving.”

“God you’re a jerk,” Claquesous says, right on cue and he crosses the room and fishes his MacBook out of his bag in one single movement. “Come on,” he says, waving Fauntleroy over. “Got something new to show you.”

The chair, Montparnasse’s favourite chair, is big enough to lounge sideways in. Which means it is  _just_  not wide enough for two people, but certainly big enough for Fauntleroy to nestle against Claquesous, with his arm wrapped around their shoulders as they balance his laptop on their knees.

“Now  _I_  think this will work,” Claquesous says, plugging in Fauntleroy’s headphones and sounding convincingly all business. “But Babet says it’s garbage.”

Fauntleroy lets out a derisive snort and puts their headphones back on. From the corner of Montparnasse’s eye, because of the way Claquesous’ unzipped hoody fall around them both, it looks slightly like Fauntleroy is tucked under Claquesous’ wing.

Montparnasse turns his eyes back to his page and as long as the others pretend to be busy with nothing but music,  _he_  pretends to be busy with nothing but reading.


	13. Braids or Brushing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Claquesous (24), Jehan (22) and Montparnasse (23) bonding, takes place after Jehanparnasse become a thing.

Claquesous barges into Montparnasse’s living room. “ _Parnasse_ ,” he grunts. “Did you ‘borrow’ my sewing magnets ag-” He stops. “Oh, didn’t know you were here, sorry.”

“Hi, Sous!” Jehan chirps happily. They are sitting cross legged on a footstool in front of the couch. Montparnasse is sitting behind them and brushing their hair.

“Hi,” he nods. “Well-” He turns away.

“You can stay if you want,” Jehan invites him readily. They shoot him a smile. “Want me to do yours?” They gesture to a pretty wooden box that sits beside Montparnasse on the couch, filled with brushes, combs and hair accessories.

Claquesous frowns. He’s not sure if-

Montparnasse looks up from Jehan’s hair for the first time since Claquesous entered the room. He looks at him, smirks and goes back to brushing.

“I’m really good at doing hair,” Jehan promises him.

Claquesous raises and eyebrow.

“Word of advice,” Montparnasse hums, running his fingers through Jehan’s locks. “Say yes.”

“Fine,” Claquesous shrugs.

Jehan makes a pleased sound and grabs a brush while Claquesous sits down on the floor in front of them, leaning back against their footstool.

“Shall I braid it, or just brushing?” Jehan asks.

“Do whatever you like,” Claquesous mutters indifferently. This is a weird day.

“Dangerous,” Montparnasse comments from behind Jehan.

“Shush,” Jehan says excitedly. “It’s going to be lovely.”

“They’re going to put flowers in your hair,” Montparnasse warns him.

“Whatever,” Claquesous grunts, but he smiles. Jehan is rummaging through the box like an excited squirrel.

“You straighten your hair, don’t you?” Jehan says,  carefully beginning to brush Claquesous hair.

He leans his head back a little and hums in agreement.

“That’s funny,” Jehan says. “I curl my hair.”

“Really?” Claquesous says, surprised. Jehan’s curls look very natural.

“Pincurls,” they confide.

“Hm,” Claquesous hums. Behind them he hears Montparnasse mutter something unintelligible and Jehan giggles.

There is a short silence, in which Claquesous has time to observe that Jehan is very good at gently brushing hair.

“Do you dye your hair?” Jehan asks curiously. “It doesn’t look like you do?”

“I don’t,” Claquesous says smugly. He is proud of his naturally dark hair.

“It’s so long,” Jehan says delightedly. “Parnasse never lets me do his hair.”

“I let you do my hair,” Montparnasse contradicts.

“You let me mess up your hair,” Jehan grins. “Not the same thing.”

“More fun though,” Montparnasse says with a smirk.

Jehan gently pulls Claquesous’ hair back, fully out of his face and he tips his head back a little again.

“So,” they say happily. “I have paper daisies, paper roses and feather butterflies.”

“No butterflies,” Claquesous warns.

“They match the roses though,” Jehan protests. “And you said I could do whatever.”

Claquesous sighs.

“Warned you,” Montparnasse smirks.


	14. A peculiar partnership

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very invested in my dramatic musician Sous and my wedding-planner Musichetta becoming friends. There are hints in the pieces in "A Shot of Jehanparnasse" and this is a piece I wrote for my lovely sister <3

“I still think it’s a shame you weren’t there,” Musichetta says, sitting down across from Claquesous at the wobbly café table. He’s never fond of small talk and since he’s expecting her there’s no need for it either.

True to form, Claquesous takes his headphones off like her sudden presence doesn’t surprise him at all and gives her half a nod. “Mm,” he hums in answer. “Not really my thing, weddings.”

Musichetta knows it isn’t, another damn shame. “Well, this piece of paper begs to differ,” she grins and she takes the invoice she drew up for his payment out of her bag and holds it out to him.

It’s made out to his stage name ‘Mascarade’, because paying a professional performer to be an artistic consultant is a lot easier to deal with fiscally than paying him as a private person.

Claquesous takes the envelope and opens it with a strangely neutral expression, not that Musichetta had expected anything else really. He looks at the figure and lets out a low whistle. “Fucking hell.”

Musichetta smiles. That’s what she thought.

He glances up at her from behind his hair. “That’s a lot of fucking money for walking through a building a couple of times.”

“A building you made look like my clients’ private little corner of the underworld,” Musichetta reminds him. ‘Pedigree goth’ Claquesous had called the now-newlyweds and Musichetta supposes they are. In any case they were ecstatic with everything he had envisioned for them. He earned that money fair and square.

“I make a point of not charging people through the nose,” she says, sitting back and swinging one leg over the other. “But expertise should be proportionally rewarded and these two had money to spare, especially for their special day.”

“Clearly,” Claquesous says, closing the envelope again with a slightly incredulous grin.

“They loved every bit of it,” Musichetta tells him. “Really. Adored it.” She told him all this over the phone already, of course, but it bears repeating. “They would have loved to meet you,” she adds.

“Yeah, well,” Claquesous smirks. “Not very good for my reputation, is it.”

She laughs, fair enough. “Maybe not,” she admits, but she’s been thinking about this a lot and…well… “Perhaps you should consider registering under a different name for gigs like these,” she suggests, in as neutral a tone of voice as she can manage. She has it on good authority (Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire all agree) that she’s not particularly good at being nonchalant about it when she’s trying to give advice.

Claquesous stares at her.

“You know,” she says, wilfully misinterpreting his confusion. “To keep them separate from your nightlife persona.”

He snorts at that, at least looking a bit more amused than uncomfortable now.

“Underground persona?” Musichetta tries again, not quite managing to repress again.

“Worse,” he grunts, but he’s grinning as well.

Musichetta waits for him to meet her eyes again and frowns slightly. Claquesous is so talented and, once he’s at a point where he’s decided to participate, she likes him so  _much_. It’s almost frustrating. “I really mean it though,” she says earnestly. “You should consider that.”

Claquesous makes a vague noise and instead of answering, leans over to tuck the envelope away in his bag, long hair draping in front of his face. He’s carefully avoiding to look at her when he sits back upright again. “Thanks,” he mutters. “But this was fun for once. I’m not doing it again.”

Musichetta knew this was coming and she’s not going to take it lying down. “Why not?” she asks calmly.

The look he gives her is familiar, slightly annoyed but ultimately resigned. He shrugs. “It’s…rich people. Fancy parties…” He shrugs again.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Musichetta admits. “And I know it will never compare to performing, but you’re good at this. Really good.”

Claquesous looks at her thoughtfully. “Thank you.”

That sounded uncharacteristically sincere and Musichetta smiles warmly in response.

“You don’t have to do anything with it, just think about it,” she says. “And—” She pulls a comically pleading face. “—please tell me I can run to you for help again next time someone uses the term ‘shadow realm aesthetic’ at me?”

One corner of Claquesous’ mouth quirks up. “Sure.” He leans back and there’s a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. “So tell me, how did it end up going down on the big day?”

Musichetta smirks. “Do you want the bridal experience or the behind the scenes fuck ups as well?”

“The whole package,” Claquesous grins and Musichetta makes an effort to sing the praises of his fantastic venue dressing, while also dwelling emphatically on all the horrors of event planning.

By the time they’re both getting up to leave Claquesous is actually smiling and Musichetta feels like it’s been a really long time since she had the opportunity to be so bitchy about things she secretly adores. It’s cathartic.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t send that thing over the mail,” she says warmly and Claquesous’ smile lingers a little longer. “This was fun.”

He nods and Musichetta slants her head.

“Are you going to allow me to hug you?” The extra serious tone is meant for comical effect, but it’s a genuine question.

Claquesous rolls his eyes, but instead of taking his bag off the third chair he steps forward.

Delighted, and more than a little surprised, Musichetta gives him a quick, one-armed hug.

He barely hugs back, but he does, and that makes all the difference.


End file.
